


like sleep to the freezing

by lattely



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, No Dialogue, POV Outsider, Relationship Study, Retirement, Slice of Life, ambiguous mcu timestamp, original dog character - Freeform, they're retired and happy and you've gotta eat what i feed you, what i mean is: place this whenever you please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 03:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18682867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lattely/pseuds/lattely
Summary: As soon as they come in each other’s orbit, the men’s bodies pull together: whether it be hands splayed over hips, fingers tangled together, or playful kisses exchanged in passing. It’s plain to see they’re the textbook definition of true love, braced and ready to kill for each other. Something about their faces says that perhaps, they already have.





	like sleep to the freezing

**Author's Note:**

> The place this is set in is a word-for-word description of my family's house at the countryside, where I'm currently spending my weekend.
> 
> Title is from Hozier's _Cherry Wine_ , because lesbianism never sleeps. Thank you so much to the wonderful [River](https://lesbuchanan.tumblr.com) for the instant beta!

There is a rickety metal gate that never quite closes, with rust gathering sneakily around the rattling handle. Around the thin steel rods that make up the gate and the fence it sits in the middle of, there wind shy branches of ivy. They’re dry and hard around the gate itself, but greener, more bold, where they aren’t disturbed by movement. The low enclosure, if faced with a grown man, would crawl to just below his chin, so if he were willing to raise his arms, he could rest them on the sun-warmed metal and look into the porch which the fence surrounds.

It’s not a porch, really, more of a small garden, but being as it spreads out in front of its house instead of behind it, it lets itself be called as it may.

Cutting from the gate through the lush, obviously cared-for lawn littered with white heads of daisies, run two parallel grooves of weathered cement. Once upon a time they were worn into the ground by the tires of a car that had been stripped away to parts years ago.

The furrows stretch from the fence through the ten meters towards the entrance to the garage that hasn’t had a vehicle other than a bicycle parked in it for decades. It’s meant instead for storing miscellaneous items that have been delegated away from the inside of the household - old-fashioned wooden sunbeds, rolled-up carpets, shrinkwrap packs of water that don’t fit in the pantry.

The double doors of the garage are heavy, of honey-colored chestnut wood, and more often than not, they stay thrown open. They serve as the primary entrance to the house, the actual front door tucked away at the shadowed west wall, opened and closed only at the beginning and end of the inhabitants’ longer absence.

On either side of the garden grow deciduous trees and thickets of bushes, framing the green space like unpinned locks falling freely around the face of a woman. Near the trees, colorful stains of flowerbeds stand out against the vibrant grass in splatters of scattered paint - forget-me-nots, yellow tulips, marigolds, and, further away, roses. To an uncaring eye, they would seem to have grown there out of their own volition, but upon closer inspection, it’s clear they’ve been planted by a loving hand.

The two-storey house the garden precedes is built of bare brick scorched pale by the sun. The narrow balcony at the front is, on sunny days, adorned with strings of laundry held in place by colorful plastic clips, rippling in the breeze which carries the sweet scent of sunshine and freshly-mown grass. In the branches, birds are hidden out of sight, never to be spotted, chirping their neverending cheerful song.

The garage doors are, of course, bolted shut at night, but come each early morning, when dew is still fresh, they’re cracked to let out a big man and a dog trotting close at his heels. The dog has long, red fur and an expressive muzzle constantly stretched into a broad canine smile, while its owner could easily be described as a modern rendition of a Greek god - fair skin, a sculpted body radiating strength and agility, golden hair clipped close to the head.

The man closes the door after himself and turns left, setting out in the direction where the village gives way to unmeasured expanses of wild forests and meadows. Based on his clothes - sweatpants and tight-fitting t-shirts - he’s heading for a habitual morning run.

When he returns with the happily exhausted dog in tow, still early but not enough for it to be called a spartan time to be awake, the doors stay open. For a while, the garden is calm, unperturbed by human footsteps, but once the sun is maybe half an hour shy of reaching its zenith, a second man steps out of the house. His dark hair falls just above his shoulders, and he moves with the compact grace of an experienced dancer. Though everything looks to be in impeccable order with his body built of tightly corded muscle, he, when it’s obvious paying attention to his reflexes has slipped his mind, tends to favor his left arm.

Sometimes, the man carries out garden chairs, one in each hand, to doze off in the greenery until lunchtime. Sometimes, he heads to the gate, tossing car keys into the air only to catch them again with ease, and starts the car parked out front. Whatever he ends up choosing to do, the blond man shortly joins him.

As soon as they come in each other’s orbit, the men’s bodies pull together: whether it be hands splayed over hips, fingers tangled together, or playful kisses exchanged in passing. It’s plain to see they’re the textbook definition of true love, braced and ready to kill for each other. Something about their faces says that perhaps, they already have.

Every now and then, the men have guests. It’s always the same handful of people in differing configurations, but there’s a trio that’s established itself as the most frequent of visitors: a woman and two men. One of them is a shaggy blond always sporting some kind of injury or other, the second a dark-skinned former soldier, if his unit sweatshirts are to be believed. The woman is small, slender, of almost uncanny beauty, with red hair flowing in waves behind her as she walks. She never knocks, and always lets herself in through the west-facing door.

Oftentimes, the redhead and her clumsy companion arrive together, and usually, they bring along a dog - a boy with luscious golden fur and a missing left eye. He is adored by the red girl the men who live in the house own; when the dogs are united, it’s as if they’ve been spun into motion by a sorcerer, chasing after one another frantically through the garden, playfully nipping at each other’s legs.

One never knows if the men’s guests will stay for the night, or leave in the evening brandishing containers of food left over from the dinner they’ve been fed. With the men, nothing is to be taken for granted - barring the fact that they undeniably enjoy being checked up on. It’s like they haven’t had anyone to take care of them in the distant past, and they’re now revelling in the caring attention like cats in a sunny patch.

Not often do the men argue. It’s as rare as a white dove in a flock of ordinary pigeons on a city square, but like everything has a tendency to do, it rolls around. If the windows happen to be unlatched, the men’s screaming can be heard from the dirt road - not as distinguishable words, but the telltale hum of rage and frustration being freed into the world.

After the worst of the storm dies down, the house is quiet. The men may be stewing in silent fury, refusing to exchange a single glance, but they might as well be kissing each other’s hands in apologies that don’t need to be spoken. From how the men look at each other on a daily basis, how they move, two organisms woven into one, it can be simply deducted it’s the latter.

There was only one time when the men didn’t immediately make up, or unsuspectingly play a part of having done so - when the long-haired dancer chased his counterpart out of the garden with his desperate shouting clear to crack and dwindle soon if given the opportunity. As the men parted, both the wooden doors and the creaking gate have been slammed shut, the wood with a resounding thud, the metal with a shriek.

The garden stayed abandoned until dusk, the air saccharine with the oncoming night’s fresh fragrance, the birds’ chirping replaced by a symphony of crickets. In the purple twilight, the fair-haired man knocked tentatively on the uncharacteristically closed garage doors instead of barging straight in. It took a moment for his partner to swing the door open, silent but for the pleading steel of his eyes which spoke a language unbeknownst to anyone besides the men. They said nothing - the blond only handed his lover a cauliflower-sized bouquet of wildflowers teeming with color. He was shortly allowed back inside.

Those with exceptional hearing would later pretend they didn’t catch the muffled sighs and whimpers soaking from one of the unfastened second-storey windows of the brick house.

There come the times when, in the evening, the men dance. It’s not the uncaring toss of bodies so typical to young people these days, no; the men melt into one, their arms wrapped around each other, and they sway to the rhythm of enthralling music from a lifetime ago. Their silhouettes are stark outlines of black against the rooms’ yellow light as they move, and though their faces are hidden away, one thing is true, no matter who’s to say it - they’re happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://lattelyy.tumblr.com)!


End file.
